


Perfect for you

by GoldenThreads



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Body Positivity, Cunnilingus, F/M, Multiple Orgasms, Self-Esteem Issues, Small Penis
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-23
Updated: 2020-06-23
Packaged: 2021-03-03 19:06:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,911
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24880528
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GoldenThreads/pseuds/GoldenThreads
Summary: Edelgard wages war on her body. Ferdinand serves.[Filled for the FE3H Kink Meme]
Relationships: Ferdinand von Aegir/Edelgard von Hresvelg
Comments: 18
Kudos: 98
Collections: FE3H Kink Meme





	Perfect for you

**Author's Note:**

> [Original prompt:](https://3houseskinkmeme.dreamwidth.org/1608.html?thread=1890632#cmt1890632) Even with as unimpressive as Ferdie's dick is, it takes ages to relax Edelgard's tiny pussy enough to make it fit.
> 
> Apparently I'm Ferdinand von Fucking Watch Me, because this challenge possessed me. H-happy birthday El.

The first time they lie together, Ferdinand promises to be perfect for her.

He certainly does his damnedest, worshiping her tits with ravenous devotion and letting her grind to completion against his thigh. He holds her all through the night, thoughtful, and then takes his breakfast between her legs, determined to raise the bar of expectation from _one_ to _three._

But he does not fuck her. At first Edelgard thinks it prudence, the forethought of a mind keen and concerned: the only legitimate son of Aegir would of course avoid any possibility of a child out of wedlock. It does not explain why he never undresses. Chivalry might, since he wrings pleasure from her body as if it is the only token he would ever wear to war, but every knight has his limits. 

Or maybe he has simply found her wanting. If he is to be perfect for her, then surely he must deny all the needs she cannot hope to fulfill! 

They have never spoken of it. There is no need. Every time his tongue curls at her forbidding entrance, every time his fingers swirl wet among her folds without any hope of nudging inside, they both know the truth: he will not fit. 

It is frankly ridiculous. Edelgard has long since brought her rebellious body to heel, pushed it far beyond its limits and won glory for the world with her own two ragged hands. Yet her starving cunt refuses all visitors no matter how she tries.

And. Oh. How. She. Tries.

Fuck’s sake, she is the _Emperor,_ and she will not have Ferdinand squirming skittish like he’ll split her in two with his pike.

It gets to the point where she even elicits help, and _still._ She not only fails, but cannot prevent the hiss that slips between her teeth that evening when Ferdinand’s hand trails a little too low.

Ferdinand freezes at once. “El…?”

She flushes, refusing to feel any shame when she must already bear the frustration, and tips her head away from his too-earnest gaze. “…I am rather sore today.”

“Ah. Forgive me. I will—”

“I was trying to open myself up,” Edelgard continues. She is sick of this dance. If he will not take her, it will not be for her own lack of effort. “Manuela gave me something to…assist. I haven’t the patience for it.”

His hands smooth over the bones of her hips in a way that would make her feel uncommonly small, were it not for how they hold to the thick muscle below. He swallows. “Might I try to ease your, er, suffering?”

“Please.”

Ferdinand’s mouth has always tormented her, and this is no different. He nips at his favorite scar on her soft stomach as he eases her out of her skirt and underthings. Concern flashes across his handsome features as he notes the red shine of irritation on her swollen skin, but rather than lecture her for such hasty, careless treatment of her own body, he only dips down to wrap his lips around her heavy clit. 

Though Ferdinand usually teases and plays, his amber eyes gleaming up at her in unspeakable fondness from the join of her legs, there is no softness in him now. Anger drives him onward to her punishment, his tongue unyielding as it strokes lightning into her limbs through that one willing bud. She scarcely notices as his thumb slides down to her entrance and lingers there, no pressure, only the brush of one callused fingertip against her burning skin.

He knows her body better than she does herself—a competition she will _never_ let him know he has won—and soon enough she tumbles over the edge to orgasm. The first is always easy, quiet, and restrained, her lip pinched between her teeth as she holds back his reward. If Ferdinand wants her wild and breathless, he’ll have to work for it. 

He always does.

Edelgard rolls her hips up towards his still-lilting tongue, or tries to, only to gasp at the suddenness of his thumb easing into the core of her. She clenches down as his other fingers curl beneath, holding her firm and keeping her from wriggling away from the intrusion, the ache so sudden and sharp. 

A pulse of faith echoes through her a moment later. 

_“Oh.”_

Edelgard sinks boneless down into the sheets. All the soreness of her misadventures eases in an instant. But only the soreness. It is lovely, but no solution for her ungrateful cunt trying to force free even this much of him.

When Ferdinand obeys the traitorous message and pulls his hand away, she catches him fast between her thighs, snarling with newly kindled hunger. “Put it back, Ferdinand, so help me—”

“Are you certain? You were in quite a state.”

It is no question at all. Edelgard reaches down and drags her fingertips along his scalp in a threat, not a kindness. Her cold gaze says it clearly: _Obey._

Ferdinand sighs as though it is a great burden and not his favorite feast, and back he goes to work. It is his middle finger that slips home this time, long and thin and opposed at every turn. Each time he crooks it within her, she gasps and shudders at the twin pressures of knuckle and fingertip. She has to drag his head back to her clit before she comes with him _smiling_ at her like this, so soft and proud. 

By the time her second peak shatters to a shiver of champagne, she has made a mess of him. Ferdinand wears every drip of pleasure he’s given her: chin wet, mouth raw, the light catching on his wrist where the wealth of her has dripped. His tongue traces each slick inch, ever hopeful that it will ease this grievous tension in her tight, sodden cunt. His shoulders shake as he loses himself for a moment, only one, and drags his own hips against the bedding.

By her third, Ferdinand has managed to sink a second finger into that throbbing heat. Edelgard clenches down with a joy so painfully bright that it pulls a gasp from _his_ throat, and for a moment she thinks she could break his hand like this. Crests or no.

Ferdinand does not remove his fingers, only lets her come down and tremble around him, muscles fluttering in an anxious afterglow. His lips trail along the silver scars of her inner thighs, and his eyes are warm. 

“How many?” Edelgard demands when her breath returns. “How many fingers would I need to take, for—” 

She jerks her chin roughly in the direction of his crotch.

To her great horror, Ferdinand laughs. But it is not at her. He sits up. His fingers slide free, dripping with their victory, and go to the clasp of his pants at long last. He does not meet her gaze as he pulls the fabric down.

“I am not of such grand concern,” Ferdinand answers, voice thick with shame.

Edelgard blinks.

He would fit in her palm, no more than that. And her hands are so very small.

She cannot let her laughter tumble free, when she knows how grievously it would injure his self-esteem. Ferdinand whispered such poetry the first time he beheld her bosom spilling free into his palms, and he’d have sung an aria to the _fair orchid_ between her legs if she hadn’t put his mouth to better use. There is nothing particular here to note, except the rush of adrenaline it gives her to see him so vulnerable—him! When she has been the one afraid of failure, of never meeting expectation! All she can think of is the time Dorothea made a lurid comment about how much the imperial statues left to the imagination, how much a man might _grow._

But not her Ferdinand. Because he is perfect for her.

Edelgard’s hands reach out on instinct, tangling in his hair to drag him over her into a brutal kiss. “You are of every concern,” she growls against his well-used lips, “And I will have you inside me.”

It is, alas, easier said than done. Despite his exuberance and perfectly proportioned charms, Ferdinand spends another half hour at the altar between her thighs, distracted now more than ever by the way she hooks her legs over his shoulders and prods him onward with her heels. 

“Up,” she calls at last, dragging him by the hair once more. If only he were as malleable at the bargaining table as he is here, like this, allowing her to manhandle him with effortless strength. 

Edelgard switches them around until it is Ferdinand sprawled out on his back with her atop him, grinding down against his cock. He whimpers at the wet slide of her, his fists clenched in the sheets, every muscle of his stomach tightening as he holds himself back from arching into her heat. He has waited so very long, telling himself he wasn’t waiting for anything at all, and the seams are beginning to fray.

Alas, she’s still not quite there and doubts Ferdinand could power through if she showed a single flinch of discomfort. She crawls up his body with a huff of annoyance. The moment her knees hit the pillow on either side of his head, Ferdinand _moans,_ craning his neck to taste her before she even settles her weight. It should be no different than before, but the pose does something to him—to _be_ her throne, instead of worshiping at it—and her thighs snap close to his ears as his hunger washes over her.

“Tongue and two,” she grits out.

The stretch of it aches. Edelgard leans into the feeling, hips rocking steadily into his searching fingers, and wishes she could bloom as easily at his touch as he does for her. 

She glances over her shoulder to observe his cock in its lonely pool of arousal, stiff and red against his scarred stomach. Will he blanch and turn away if she calls it handsome? Edelgard reaches back to stroke a finger along its curve, watches it twitch and feels the answering thrum in her blood long before he sobs out her name. 

How many times has Ferdinand spilled in his clothes, overcome by her pleasure, when she thought he’d only half-hardened from his diligent service? 

A shiver of want arcs through her, a sudden gale whirling up, _up,_ until she crests her fourth crisis of the evening, and even Edelgard’s body begins to give in to divine exhaustion at last. She clenches weakly at Ferdinand’s still-seeking fingers as she settles against him with a sigh. The only soreness is in the trembling muscles of her thighs; the rest of her is soft, sated, and utterly ravenous.

__

“Perfect,” she hums, brushing away messy copper curls where they stick to his forehead from sweat and slick and spit alike. 

__

Her dear, pitiful champion has waited long enough. 

__

Ferdinand whines at the loss when she eases off of him, lips swollen and eyes clouded with drifting pleasure. She would tease him about how often he’s critiqued her _seat_ when they go riding, but the words would scarcely register right now. 

__

He rasps her name with such adoration she can barely stand it.

__

Edelgard kneels over his hips, the slightest distance kept between them. “Up for five?”

__

_“Goddess, yes.”_

__

There is scarcely time for her legs to tremble before she sinks down and devours him whole.

__


End file.
